Little Miss Hooper
by LunaRS
Summary: "No one ever gets to me...and no one ever will." or will they? Will Molly Hooper win the struggle within? Or will her temptation be her demise? Rated M for extreme violence in later chapters, language, and Major Character Death. Please R&R! I don't suggest this for the faint of heart. FYI I don't do slash pairings so please don't expect any.
1. James Moriarty

He gazed at her delicate and lithe neck, wanting to touch, to squeeze his hands wrapped around it; he wanted to strangle her, not for anything in particular she had done, besides being so completely ordinary like the rest of the world, but because he wanted to feel her silky skin bulge slightly between his fingers, warm and soothing, as he gripped tighter and tighter.

He lusted for the feeling of her body, writhing, and the pain that was sure to come to his hands and arms as she clawed at him in her soon ending struggle for air…

But though her simpleness was monotonous, he only looked, did not touch.

At the same time as his violent musings, he only wished to graze his fingers across her cheek gently, to grasp her smooth brown hair and breathe in its tropical scent.

He had a strange attraction to the short and practical coroner.

This particular emotion confused him; it wasn't quite lust or even love.

For all his genius, he could not figure out what it was that pulled him nearer to her.

He strolled into the room and quietly walked behind her, lifting a tendril of her hair and smelling it, closing his eyes and relishing in her scent.

She whipped around and gasped when she saw his face.

He grinned.

The fear in her eyes amused him, making him chuckle.

"James…Moriarty?" she breathed in her fright and confusion, her brown eyes wide.

He let his eyes slowly study her from head to toe.

"Hello, Molly." Moriarty purred, his face hovering in front of hers; his skin tingled when her breath warmed it.

His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders.

Moriarty's eyes lingered on Molly's lips; he remembered how sweet she tasted.

He licked his lips, absently.

'_Oh…Little Miss Hooper…'_ he thought.

"Tell me, where are you hiding Sherlock Holmes?"


	2. Where's Sherlock?

**a/n: A couple people asked me to continue this, even though it was just a Oneshot, and so here ya go! Just a warning, this will be a very, very, dark story. There will be some language and if you can't handle a lot of blood and some gory violence, then I suggest you do not read this. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it as much as you can!**

"What?" Molly breathed in confusion. Moriarty grinned.

"Where are you hiding Sherlock Holmes?" he repeated slowly, the purr of his Irish accent bringing a blush to the coroner's cheeks.

"I'm...I'm not hiding Sherlock. He's dead," she almost squeaked. She resembled a mouse who had just been pinned down by a cat. "Awww...you're cute as a button when you're frightened." James poked her nose playfully.

Molly looked positively terrified; she was trembling like a leaf.

"...I believe you, though," Moriarty admitted. He had studied every feature of her face a thousand times over when they had been dating and he could tell when she was lying; he knew her confusion was genuine. However, when dear Molly said Sherlock was dead, her breathing had quickened and she'd looked down for a moment. "Well, mostly. I know you helped Sherlock fake his death," he added, watching her closely, his face still hovering over hers. There: a slight flicker in her eyes, a quickening of that sweet breath…

"I-I-"

"Now, Molly, I can tell when you're lying," he started, digging his fingers slowly into the fabric of the lab coat on her shoulders; oh, he wanted so badly to rip the damn thing off and feel her skin against his, to dig his fingernails into her arms and draw blood, scarlet blood...so red…

"And that makes me VERY ANGRY!" he shouted the last part, earning a squeak from Molly. It tickled his amusement and he resumed his confident and sly grin, loosening his grip on Molly's shoulders and sliding his hands down to hold hers, gently.

He noticed her blush deepen. She liked that.

Moriarty, for reasons half unknown to even himself, leaned forward and closed the gap between Molly's lips and his own.

She tasted faintly of strawberries, just as he remembered she would. Molly seemed to be swept away by the kiss; Jim mused on what or who she must be thinking of.

'_Probably Jim from IT...'_ he thought, smirking through the kiss. After another moment, he pulled away, rather reluctantly, surprising to him, and ran a finger down her cheek to her lips and let it linger there for a moment.

'Now, don't lie to me. Where's Sherlock?" Moriarty questioned softly.

Molly hesitated; Moriarty saw Molly stealthily pick up a scalpel.

"Sherlock is dead," she started, looking determined and defiant. Jim smiled inwardly but cast a nasty glare to inform her that he knew she was still lying.

"And so are you!' Molly exclaimed, attempting to stab James with the scalpel in the heart. Moriarty blocked it expertly, however, and laughed, squeezing her hand until she dropped the tool-gone-weapon.

"I admire your loyalty." He now knew, from observation, that Sherlock was, in fact, alive, but this timid woman knew nothing about his whereabouts. He shrugged.

"Okay, fine. So you don't know where he is. You could have just said so," Jim said, letting go of Molly. He smiled and began to walk away and stopped in front of the doorway. "I'll visit again soon, little Miss Hooper. Don't lie to me again," he said.

"Ciao~." was the last thing Molly heard before she heaved a sigh of relief.

Molly thought it was strange, the way he acted, but she was glad that she really didn't know where the detective consultant was, and that Moriarty believed her.

And yet, though Moriarty was gone, her lips still tingled, she still blushed, and her breath hitched once or twice in her throat in a mixture of nerves and adrenaline.

Shaking her head to dismiss those thoughts, Molly quickly cleaned up, deciding that it would be best to go home and come back refreshed in the morning.

Molly took a cab home and found herself unable to stop thinking about Jim Moriarty, those sweet gestures he used to make…

'_Stop it, Molly...that's Jim from IT you're thinking of.' _she thought, scolding herself inwardly.

The cab pulled in front of her destination. She paid the Cabbie and started towards her flat.

'_Jim Moriarty is different...'_

Molly opened the door to her flat and flipped on the lights, letting her eyes adjust to the light as she cleaned her glasses.

Once she set her spectacles on the bridge of her nose again, she was met by the sound of her Television turning on. She turned towards her living room and there she saw a tall, dark-haired man sitting on her sofa.

"What is…" her small voice trailed off. The man turned and peered at her with squinted eyes. Molly gasped.

"Hello, Molly," the deep and calculating voice of Sherlock Holmes greeted.


	3. Don't Tell

**A/N: Just a warning that updates on this fic will be very sparse so please bear with me and be patient, seeing how I am also writing several other ongoing fics at the same time (don't ask me why because I don't know either…)**

"Sherlock?" Molly said in disbelief. The figure stood and walked up to her and into the light. It was, indeed, Sherlock. Fear, anger, and happiness welled up inside of her.

"What the bloody hell are you doing in my flat?" she hissed. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, studying her; she felt she'd been studied enough for one day.

"Why are you so angry?" Sherlock asked.

"I-I'm not angry...you startled me, that's all," she explained. "It's been two years and you suddenly appear in my flat, watching my Telly," she added, a bit exasperated.

"...I'm sorry, Molly," he apologized, looking a bit like a child who had just been scolded. Molly was taken aback by his apology.

"I-It's alright. No real harm done," she said. "Who else knows of your return?" she asked.

"Nobody," Sherlock answered bluntly. "I need...to wait a little longer. I've decided to stay here in your flat, you won't mind will you?" he explained, hesitant at first.

"N-No, I don't mind. But what about John? Shouldn't you go back to living with him in your old flat?" Molly asked. Sherlock's eye twitched slightly; Molly took that as a sort of weakness, the only weakness she could remember ever having found in the detective.

"John...he has life. It is probably best that I not disturb that until a sizeable case comes along." he said, a bit quietly. It was strange for Molly to hear Sherlock Holmes talking with such sympathy for a person, even if they _were_ talking about John; he even spoke softer than usual to Molly, which was even more offsetting to the timid coroner.

"Don't tell anyone, please, Molly," Sherlock asked of the woman standing before him. "Don't let John, or Lestrade, or even Mrs. Hudson know of my return."

"Okay, I promise," Molly promised, still very curious about why he wouldn't show himself to his friends; was he frightened? Molly couldn't imagine Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective, the man she had obsessed over for too many years, could be afraid of anything; but it was obvious that he acted differently towards his friends, almost as if to reassure them that he thought them unordinary and set apart from the strangers of the streets of London.

A small ghosting feeling that she'd forgotten to tell Sherlock something wisped across her mind for a moment before she made her way into her room where she promptly fell asleep.

Molly woke early the next morning and Sherlock supplied her with his mobile number so that he may contact her if he so wished to. She made a quick breakfast of buttered toast and coffee for herself and her long-staying guest.

She left her flat a few moments later and waved down a Cab.

Once she'd arrived at her destination, the street in front of her laboratory was swarmed with bustling people. Molly paid the Cabbie what he was due and sighed at the difficulty before her. She began trying to squeeze through the crowd before she felt someone grab her arm. She was whisked off into an empty alleyway and a hand was pushed over her mouth to keep her from screaming in her surprise.

She was pushed up against the brick wall and the hand drew away from her mouth. Moriarty grinned at her mischievously.

"Hello, Miss Hooper," he purred into her ear, making her blush involuntarily.

"What do you want?!" she hissed in both fear and annoyance.

"I wanted to see if you were more _agreeable_ today," he started, his charming Irish accent weaving his words slowly into her ears.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" James asked.

"I-I don't know!" Molly groaned in her anger; why couldn't he just leave her alone? Why did she have to deal with so much drama and danger?

"...I was only testing you, Molly. You don't need to look so frightened." He grinned again, studying her face; Molly made sure to show no sign that she knew the location of the detective in question. Jim tightened his grip on her shoulders and leaned her harder into the wall.

It wasn't that he didn't believe Molly-which he didn't, after watching her closely-it was the fact that she dared to instill those strange and confusing feelings in the pit of his stomach, an emotion he couldn't quite grasp, but he knew what it was. How _dare_ she. Jim was furious.

"Let go!" she protested in a hoarse whisper so that no one but him would hear, struggling against his grip.

Moriarty blinked. He lost his train of thought...Ah, yes.

Sherlock Holmes.

Molly was at a loss for what to do and a chill shivered through her when James' smile spread once again on his face before he grew very solemn; she could even see a tinge of fear in those big brown eyes of his; it ultimately made her even more frightened than she already was: if a psychopath had reason to look afraid, then there must be something worth fearing.

Moriarty's lips lingered above Molly's before he grinned one last time and backed away.

"I know Sherlock has made contact with you, Molly. I don't appreciate you lying to me," he growled in that sing-song voice of his. Molly was still flustered and a bit dazed when he let go.

"Goodbye~" Jim practically sang before he walked casually into the busy crowd and was gone from her sight in moments.

_'This will be a very long day,'_ she thought with a heavy sigh, as she cleaned her spectacles.

Molly slept lightly that night, very aware of her hero and idol slumbering in the next room on her sofa.

In the middle of the night, a thought struck her suddenly.

'_Why didn't I tell Sherlock that Jim Moriarty is still alive?' _her body screamed for her to leap from her bed, out of her nice and warm blankets, and tell the detective of the danger; but her heart held her back, telling her that the idea was unwise.

Her mind argued with her heart.

'_But Sherlock is in danger if we don't tell him!' _her mind shouted desperately. Though a heaviness found the pit of Molly's stomach, and a guilt crept up her spine, her heart still replied with a resounding _'Don't tell Sherlock. We can hold out. We can deal with Moriarty ourselves.'_

'_No, I should tell Sherlock,'_ Molly thought to herself.

_'James is the only one who looked at you. Not even Sherlock would do that for you,' _came her heart's contribution, beating down any need to jump out of her bed.

'_...But, no...that's Jim from IT you're thinking of…' _Molly argued with her heart, rolling over in her bed restlessly.

'_Jim loves you,' _her heart continued. _'Wait and see. Don't tell Sherlock.' _

And thus her heart bound her mind and made no further discussion on the matter within.


	4. Pondering

He was having a difficult time keeping Molly out of his thoughts. No matter how he tried, he couldn't think of anything else and it made him feel weak.

Moriarty despised that feeling, being weak. He hadn't the time.

He was bored again, because he was unable to get any serious work done. He didn't like feeling bored. He was going to have to fix that restless feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Moriarty wanted to feel her hand in his once more, to tear the skin and draw red, red, blood; to feel the bones in her neck crack and shatter when he twisted and squeezed; her body would shudder then go limp, her skin pale and pure; _that_ would be _ravishing_.

Moriarty grinned at the thought as he walked, lost in the crowd of rushing, busy-bodied, and irritatingly ordinary people. How could they live so contently with such little and narrow minds, never seeing reality for what it is and everything one can understand from it? He was a stranger among strangers, knowing that no one would remember his face in time to do anything about it. It had been two years, after all, and there was no possibility of anyone other than Sherlock having an able-enough mind to remember every detail of every person he'd ever met; Sherlock was the only man who could ever stand on Jim's level, and that was _rude_.

He was a shadow, pitch black; his only imperfections being that in place of darkened eyes, two white slots shone in his search for Mr. Holmes, the only man who was able enough to escape him, and the other being that in the empty place where his cold heart had shriveled up and dislodged itself when he was only just a boy, a new scarlet one had grown, unwilling and fragile; it was all because of Molly; sweet little Molly…

James had to have her.

"The Summer Wind came blowin' in-from across the sea~" Moriarty began to sing quietly as he walked leisurely into a dim alleyway.

"It lingered there, touch your hair, and walk with me~" His rich tenor voice echoed softly, bouncing off the cold walls. He walked around the corner and stood in the shadows like a predator in wait for his prey. He checked his watch, continuing to hum the melody.

_10:28am_. Miss Turner would be here soon, as was her daily routine. Although, she was about to receive an involuntary schedule change. He slipped on some latex gloves as he prepared himself for his new plans. He grinned and resumed the song from where he'd left off.

"...then we strolled that golden sand~ Two sweethearts, and the Summer Wind~"

He hummed a bit longer, two minutes actually, before he suddenly became perfectly silent and still. Miss Turner, a tall and lithe woman, walked confidently in stilettos that went _clip _clop, _clip_ clop, against the cold, wet concrete in the alley. Moriarty studied her business clothes and deduced that she was some sort of banker, and an important one at that; not that any of this mattered. Jim was only observing what there was to observe; it was a useful habit of his. She was young and full of life; so beautiful, Jim thought, and so _ordinary_; he wondered how many ways he could make her face contort in pain…

Miss Turner stepped past him before he reached out and grabbed her arm gently. She gasped and dropped her briefcase. Moriarty smiled and stepped out of the shadows.

"Hello, I was wondering if you've got the time?" James asked, anticipation rising inside of him. Miss Turner smiled politely in return and pulled out her mobile.

"Ten thirty," she informed him, her voice scratchy and imperfect. Not at all like he'd imagined.

Moriarty frowned and suddenly lashed out, wrapping a hand around her neck.

"Nothing personal, Miss Turner," he purred, wrapping his other hand around her neck. "Just a little bored, you see." He grinned at the terror in her eyes as she struggled against his grip. He squeezed until her throat collapsed and he let her slide down the side of the wall, out of hearing and sight of any bystanders, and smiled as he watched her slowly suffocate, only making the pain worse with her panic.

"Like painted kites, those days and nights - went flyin' by~" he sang on softly, a gentle vibrato gracing his tone as he knelt and pulled a knife with a serrated edge from his suit jacket.

"The world was new, beneath a blue - umbrella sky~" He conducted a bit of the music, by now playing in his head, with the knife.

"Then softer than, a piper man - one day it called to you~" He set the edge to the side of her neck.

'_What exactly is my plan?' _Moriarty thought to himself. _'How do I intend to make Miss Hooper mine?' _

Miss Turner began to make audible chokes. Jim looked at her with a disgusted grin and slowly, patiently, began to dig the blade into her skin, watching as a waterfall of scarlet blood gushed out of her. The choking grew more adamant.

"I lost you to the summer wind~"

What _was_ he going to do if Molly refused him, assuming that he gave up; that _would_ be rare for him to simply give up.

James jerked the blade further into her neck, relishing in the blood that now sprayed and spattered his suit; he didn't mind. Well, not _too_ much.

"The autumn wind, and the winter wind - have come and gone and still the days, those lonely days - go on and on~"

Miss Turner began to convulse, her eyes rolling back in her head and her limbs growing limp as the time went on. Jim ground the blade into her jugular vein, cut through her windpipe, and dug into the bone of her spinal cord. She stopped moving and was pale as pearls. Miss Turner was dead.

"And guess who sighs his lullabies - through nights that never end~" he sang, panting a little. He smoothed his hair. If Molly refused him for far too long, he knew what he would do: he was going to make her red, like roses, covered in her own blood where she would wallow and drown and choke. She had better not refuse him.

Moriarty pulled out his phone and texted Sebastian Moran.

"_Bring the car around." -M_

"My fickle friend, the Summer Wind~" he finished, wiping his bloodied knife on Miss Turner's clothes until it was clean. Yes, if Molly wasn't compliant, she would be his 'Rose'; the most beautiful one of all.

"Now, what to do with all this blood?"


End file.
